Page 38 of A Life Chosen

It was rare for Rayan to find himself in a room with the boss. Giorgio Russo was a well-dressed man in his late seventies who wouldn’t have garnered more than a passing glance from someone walking by him on the street. Upon closer inspection, however, one could see the diamond embellishment on his Rolex, the thick gold rings that adorned the fingers of both hands, and the perfectly tailored hemline of his custom-made Italian suit.

They were in the VIP room at the back of Le Rouge. The boss had taken his place at the head of the table, an unusual sight in recent months. He looked drawn, his skin pale and waxen across sharpened cheeks. Like Belkov, Rayan had also heard the whispers of rumors—nothing he’d been bold enough to put to Mathias, but there was talk of a worsening illness, an uncertain recovery. Which would explain why his appearances had become few and far between.

Assembled around the table were Giovanni, Tony, and Mathias. Rayan stood by the door with Stefano, one of Russo’s handlers, and Giovanni’s second, Henri Rossi. He avoided looking at his boss, who had been deadly quiet on the drive over, his silent fury filling the car with a pressure that made Rayan’s lungs contract. The drinks had been poured, and they waited for the boss to begin.

“We’ve found ourselves in an unfortunate position,” Russo announced, sitting forward in his chair and wrapping a hand around his glass.

Mathias’s expression shifted into a thinly concealed scowl, a curl of smoke rising from the cigarette in his bandaged hand.

“Belkov maintains we fired first, but in all our years dealing with the Russians, when hasn’t his story changed to fit their agenda?” The boss looked at Giovanni, who nodded in agreement.

Rayan stared ahead, impassive. Mathias had given him a brief rundown of what had happened before he showed up that afternoon in the lumber shed. He’d also instructed him on what to do with this particular information, the importance of obscuring certain truths. Even so, Rayan knew his capo had left things out and was unsure why he was withholding details.

“I imagine Belkov’s attempting to cover his own soldier’s misstep,” Giovanni said, swilling his drink reflectively. “What seemed an act of open aggression maysimply have been a regrettable overreaction. Junior accused the Bratva of coming up short, and one of the men took offense. Words were exchanged, and before the situation could be diffused, the Russian opened fire.”

Tony shifted in his seat, a flare of red making its way along his neck. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit I pushed the kid forward. Junior was mouthy—might have hit a wrong note with the Bratva. You know how they get. Beauvais made it clear he wasn’t ready for the field.”

“I’ll be frank,” Russo said with a sigh, his forehead drawing into a deep groove. “We don’t have the weight to back up a call for Belkov’s head, and I can’t afford an all-out war with the Russians right now. So concessions need to be made. There will be sanctions, a punitive hike in port duties—the Russians can count on that. But Silvano Paterlini’s out for blood.” Russo paused, taking a sip and letting the information sink in. “And a man who’s lost his only child is not overly conciliatory.”

Rayan reached for the dull ache of guilt. He had pulled the trigger, after all, taking the life of Paterlini’s son. Yet here he stood, remorseless, not because of his hatred for Junior but because the man had been seconds away from taking Mathias from him. Unlike previous times Rayan had used his weapon, this instance had not caused him any regret.

“Paterlini won’t stand for this to be swept under the rug. The man has been a loyal member of the family from the early days.” The boss looked at Mathias, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “Rightly or wrongly, he’s placed some of the blame on you, Mathias, and refuses to be convinced otherwise. Grief is a polarizing thing.”

His logic rankled Rayan. Russo had revealed his own bias—a preference for those whose ties encircled him the tightest. It was clear that Mathias, of lower rank and with limited family connections, had little say in how this played out.

“We need to keep the peace within the family. Especially during this period of…” The boss glanced at Giovanni. “Uncertainty. I’m sure with time, Paterlini will see things more clearly. Then we can revisit this.”

Mathias stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him, pushing down hard until the whole thing collapsed beneath his fingertips. “What does keeping the peace look like exactly?” he asked, his voice low.

“Something has opened up,” Russo began judiciously. “Not a bad opportunity, considering—silver lining and all that. We thought it best you spent some time away from the city. Let the air clear.”

Rayan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.We’re being pushed out?His gaze flicked to his boss then down to the man’s bandaged hand.Did he know?

“Marco Moretti is finishing up in Hamilton, moving back here to care for his elderly mother. The office needs a new head, fresh blood. Figure you’d be an excellent replacement. We’d make youvangelistaof course. It’s a satellite, sure, but you’ll be running it.”

The information dropped like a dead weight. Russo appeared to be waiting for a reaction. Mathias was entitled to one. He was doing them all a favor by taking this on the chin, allowing himself to be subject to the whims of family seniority, however unhinged. He deserved at least one big outburst, a heated refusal.

But Mathias, in perfect form, remained a stone. “Starting when?”

“Hell, as soon as you can get out there.” Russo chuckled. “Who knows? This might prove a decent leg up.”

There was a long pause before Mathias spoke. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

The sentiment was perfunctory, ringing false. But it was good enough for the men at the table. The boss raised his drink in a toast. “Water under the bridge,” he said as the men lifted their glasses.

Mathias downed the contents of his in one swig and stood, providing his obligatory—albeit tight-lipped—thanks to the collection of men, opting against staying for another round and the accompanying small talk. Then he turned and walked past Rayan to the door, leaving him to follow.

Outside, Mathias strode through the parking lot, rolling his shoulders as though trying to shake something. He stopped beside the car, his expression oscillating between anger and frustration. “Make your own way home,” he instructed sharply.

Rayan gave a short nod. By the look of him, Mathias seemed wild enough to disappear into the night, untethered to reason, fueled by uncoiling rage. Rayan would have preferred to drive him just to make sure he returned to the safety of his apartment. Then he remembered the room of shattered glass.

“Call,” Rayan said flatly, realizing the futility of his concern. “If you need something.”

The words sounded familiar, although he couldn’t remember from where.

Mathias found himself unable to sleep. He lay in bed, unsure what to make of this new development. The blackness was back, turning his stomach, consuming him. A hard lump of fury had lodged itself in his chest since the meeting with Russo earlier that day. Mathias pulled out his cigarettes and began to smoke, taking long, slow drags. Thoughts flicked through his mind in quick succession. Instead ofdismissing them as he usually did, he let them stick. He couldn’t seem to shake them loose. A small part of him was already testing the feasibility of retrieving his gun from the safe, driving to Piero Russo’s house, and putting an end to him—going through the motions, how each step led to the next. It was simple, with none of the scheming and insistence on the long game. Of course, it would also mean putting an end to himself. There was no walking away from whacking the boss’s son as he slept. That was where things began to unravel. Mathias was many things, but suicidal, he was not.

His frustration rose, a tightness that gripped him. He felt a sting as the cigarette burned down to his fingers. Crushing it in the ashtray on his nightstand, Mathias held up his right hand. He tugged on the clasp of the bandage and unwound the fabric to reveal the crisscross of cuts beneath. He needed to distract himself, or things would start to break.

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